


Pinstripes Run Red

by infectedscrew



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 1920's AU, Mild Gore, Minor cursing, Tags to be added, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infectedscrew/pseuds/infectedscrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920's AU - The roaring twenties brought more than just a fantastic party scene to Gotham City. Only the Dark Knight, a mysterious vigilante, stands in the way of the growing mafia and criminal underworld.</p>
<p>(Note: May not be continued)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Since the beginning of the Roarin’ Twenties, Gotham had become a place of excitement and entertainment. Not even the constant territorial wars between the mafia families could stop the people coming in droves. They loved the danger of the streets and the thrills of the night life. There was one thing, however, that pulled in the most people. The clubs and parlors owned by Mr. Bruce Wayne himself were the jewels of Gotham city. Those great places of business promised a show of off-beat entertainment and more than enough alcohol to fill the Grand Canyon. 

Although that second bit was strictly under the table.

The Government, in an effort to make America cleaner and safer, had decided to ban one of it’s most prevalent imports. In one fell swoop they got rid of every drop of alcohol and stated that any person or business that tried to sell it would be in serious trouble with the law. Not that the law would do much good as is. Most of the major forces were half corrupted with the other half black mailed or threatened into inactivity.

The 1920’s were the age of the Organized Crime and there was no way they were going to give it up without a fight.

With most people living free and partying hard it was difficult to think that there were many unhappy people in Gotham anymore. Of course, there were the mafia wars but anyone not apart of a family didn’t have much to worry about. Nearly everyone was employed. After the Influenza outbreak, there were an influx of medical care and food. Even the poorest person was doing better than ever before.

And yet, problems still cropped up. One such problem was currently plaguing the minds of the employees of Bruce Wayne’s most successful club. Four of them, three very attractive young men and one very lovely young lady sat around a small table in the back.

“Who the hell would call a hit like that?”

One of the young men, who had jet black hair with a streak of white, growled angrily, gesturing at the newspaper another one of the young men held. He reached over the table and snatched it out of the others hands.

“Hey! I wasn’t done reading that,” the man snapped. He appeared to be the youngest of the lot, with large blue eyes and gently wavy black hair.

“Sure you were,” the first stated, snapping open the paper. “And I wanted a closer look.”

“Come on, Jason, don’t be rude,” a third male spoke up. His tone was serious but his face was amused. He could have been an older brother to the youngest male, if his blue eyes and dark hair were anything to go by. But no, where he was sharp and strong, the smaller male’s was soft and gentle.

For a moment the first male glared. “Fine, Dickie,” he sighed. “You know, you keep babying Timmy and he’s going to grow up soft.”

That earned a snort from the young lady. She tossed her fiery red hair over one shoulder and fixed sharp blue eyes on the men at the table. “Tim has got to be the least ‘soft’ person I know,” she stated, which caused a blush to cross Tim’s cheeks almost ruining her statement. “He could knock you, Jay."

Jason rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Yea, yea,” he grumbled, pulling his black fedora down over his face, it was a trick he used to avoid any further conversation, especially one he knew he would lose. “Wake me when I care.”

“So, anything in the story, Tim?” The woman asked, looking over at the youngest male.

Tim shook his head. “Barely anything. The police can’t find shit.”

Dick laughed. “The police don’t know shit. Or if they do, they’ve been paid off.” He let out a small sigh. “Come on, Babs. Only an hour until the dinner rush.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “You on duty tonight?” He glanced at Tim.

“I am. Have to see what the South Side is up to.” He looked over the paper and smirked. “Guido’s getting far too excited down there.”

Dick nodded, returning the sly expression. “Those are your people. Don’t get too insulting. I’ll let you know what I dig up tonight.” After a quick pat to Tim’s shoulder, he and Babs left the table, making their way to the dressing rooms in the far back of the building.

There was going to be quite the show tonight. As rumor had it, Oswald 'The Penguin’ Cobblepot was coming down for a visit. And if there was a mafia boss that could hold a party, that man would certainly be it. Save for Bruce Wayne, of course. Which meant that all of The Cave employees were up and about trying to get the place as close to perfection as possible.

Tim shifted and with a delicate motion, he knocked Jason’s chair legs. With a clatter, the front two legs of the chair landed back on the floor and Jason let out a snarl, knife out in an instant.

“Get up,” Tim said, smoothly, unfazed by the weapon in his face. “We have some chores to do.”

“You could have just said my name,” Jason snapped, slipping his knife back into his boot. Slowly, he stood, brushing off his pinstripe pants. Fixing his fedora, he looked at Tim with a serious expression. “Who are we tonight?”

The edges of Tim’s mouth tilted upward ever so slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you really thing this is going to work?” Jason asked, tugging on the thick brown collar of his winter coat. He watched as Tim pulled on what could only be described as a twelve year old’s clothing. A crisp white shirt covered with a brown vest, brown pants and smart black shoes, the perfect News Boy.

“For once, I can thank God that I was born short,” Tim replied, settling a boy’s cap on his head. The baggy clothes swamped him, adding to the image of a pathetic child. He held his hand out and Jason dropped a thin gray sweater into his hand.

Jason rolled his eyes. “You’re going to get cold with just that.”

“Thank you, father,” Tim replied, archly. “That’s why you’ll be a good pops and carry my jacket for me.” He thrust another winter coat into Jason’s arms.

In all honesty, Tim was only a foot shorter than Jason but Jason towered over people. He was built thick and heavy and, when compared to Tim's much thinner, lighter form it wasn't impossible to imagine that Tim was decades younger than Jason. The carefully drawn on wrinkles, dash of white in his hair and rough stubble on Jason's jaw helped a lot too.

Gotham winters were always harsh and cruel. Sharp winds snaked around the tall buildings, ready to stab at any exposed skin. Rarely were the city dwellers granted with sun light, making most days gray and winter short. Not even the snow was a childish pleasure. Most of the soft power was dirty and pushed aside by the sweepers the instant it landed. The year's winter was proving to be even more terrible than years before and it was doing nothing to help stop or slow the string of murders showing up around town.

Which was why the relief was palpable when Jason was able to step inside the warm Gotham police station. Although it didn't last long when he had to listen to Tim make the most pathetic sniffing noises.

“You say this guy was your uncle?”

Tim glanced up from between his fingers. His gaze landed on an overweight cop, whose deep blue uniform strained at the buttons.

Detective Bullock was one of the worst examples of law enforcement. However, he was also one of the few good, clean cops left in the city. Despite his bad, lazy attitude, he was devoted to his work and always determined to bring in the scum of the streets. Currently, he was shoving a cake in his mouth, glaring at Tim like he wasn’t fit for the bottom of his shoe.

“My brother, his uncle,” Jason confirmed, voice deep and serious. “Are we allowed to see him? Or at least get his belongings.”

Bullock’s eyes narrowed. He shoved the last of the cake in his mouth and stood up. “Let me get the chief.” With one last glare, he waddled off to the chief’s office.

Jason leaned down to whisper into Tim’s ear. “Do you even know the guys name?”

That made Tim glare through fake tears. “I told you on the way over here,” he hissed. “His name is Anthony Tomlinson. You are his brother, Jacob Tomlinson and I am your son, Ethan.”

“Ethan?” Jason repeated, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes, you’re family is very religious and picks names only in the Bible,” Tim continued to explain, deeply annoyed that Jason didn’t listen to him.

Jason straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest and looking moody. “Damn bible belters,” he complained. “This means I’m going to have to be all ‘God Bless you’ and shit, doesn’t it?”

Before Tim could answer, Jim Gordon, the Chief of Police, stepped over to them. He was an older man, with premature gray hair. His brown eyes were surrounded by crows feet brought on by a harsh life. He was known, however, for being kind to anyone who was in need. And his warmth was not unfound when he smiled at Tim.

“Hello, son,” he said, then looked up to Jason. “You’re Mr. Tomlinson?” He held his hand out for Jason to take.

“That would be me,” Jason said pleasantly enough, taking the hand offered. “This is my son, Ethan.” Anyone but Tim wouldn’t have noticed the quirk of amusement behind Jason’s eyes. “I was hoping you would be kind enough to tell me what happened to my brother…. God rest his soul,” he added, voice going tight.

Jim bowed his head slightly. “Of course. Well,” he paused, glancing at Tim, as if worrying that he was too young to hear. Deciding Tim was just fine, he continued, “your unfortunate brother was murdered. We’ve yet to find out why.” He swallowed, frowning slightly. “I can’t let you see the body.”

“Why not?” Tim demanded, speaking for the first time. His eyes were wide and brimming with unshed tears. Sometimes, Jason wondered where he had learned to do that. Out of all the Cave members, Tim was the biggest question mark. “I want to see my uncle.”

Jim knelt down, resting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Son,” he sighed. “We can’t show you because…” He stopped, eyes closing for a second. “Because there isn’t enough left to show.”

Both Tim and Jason couldn’t stop the gasps that escaped them. There was no acting behind it either.

“What?” Jason breathed.

Jim glanced to the side. “I can’t tell you all the details. Once this investigation is over, you are welcome to a full report. Until then…” He trailed off.

Jason’s hand dropped to Tim’s shoulder as well. He nodded solemnly. “I understand. Then, can we at least get his things?”

Straightening up, Jim nodded. “Give me a moment.” He offered Tim a brief smile before disappearing to get the evidence.

“What now?” Jason asked.

Tim was quiet for a moment, then, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Jason stared.

“Father! I have to go to the bathroom!” He glared, an expression fitting an angry teenager.

“Well… I…” He glanced around. Spotting an officer, he called to him. “Excuse me, can you show my son where the bathroom is?”

The officer, a tall, dark haired man with an easy smile nodded. “Of course.” He moved over to Tim. “My name is Clark,” he said. “Come with me.” He offered his hand.

Hesitantly, Tim took the hand. He was almost lifted off his feet before being gently guided down the hall to a public restroom.

“What’s your name?” Clark asked pleasantly. His eyes were a disturbingly light shade of blue. He had to be taller than Bruce, although it was hard to tell who had more muscle. Still, Tim couldn’t help but feel safe around the man. Silently, he prayed the man was one of the good cops, if he was even a cop at all--he certainly wasn't dressed like one.

“Uhm, Ethan,” Tim replied.

“I heard about your uncle. I am sorry,” Clark said and he truly looked it. His hand squeezed Tim’s. “Well, this is the bathroom.” He had stopped at an unassuming door. “I trust you can find your way back on your own?” He looked like he would stay if Tim asked.

Tim didn’t ask. Instead, he nodded and stepped in. He waited for a moment, listening to Clark’s footsteps disappear. As soon as they silenced, he slipped out of the bathroom. No one was around and quickly, he made his way back through the halls toward the Morgue. He slipped through the PD halls more than once, the path was one that was burned into his memory. Only once did he have to dip into a storage closet to make sure he wasn’t caught.

“Okay,” he sighed. “These cops need to learn how to lock things,” he sighed, slipping through the heavy steel doors. The room beyond smelled like stale blood and metal. It was also completely dark.

Carefully, he searched for the light. Flipping the switch, he waited for the small, bare bulbs to light up. The police had only so recently been granted the privilege of some of the newer Edison bulbs. City Hall didn't really see why they needed upgrades when they'd been doing so well with the gas lamps. But even the knew lights weren't all that better. The thin beams of light barely cut into the darkness. It was, however, just enough to see the newest black bag on the gurney.

A quick glance out the tiny opening in the door told Tim no one was coming. He quickly strode over to the bag. The tag read 'Anthony Marcel Tomlinson, Male, 29’. 

In seconds the bag was open.

Jim Gordon hadn’t been lying. There was hardly anything left to even call it a body. Only a pile of muscle tissue and a head lay inside. If the head hadn't been there, it would have been difficult to even know if he was looking at a human being. There must have been some other form of ID in his belongings. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to say that the mass was Anthony.

Resisting the urge to throw up, Tim zipped the bag back up. The Dark Knight had to know.


End file.
